Yesterday I sat opposite a man who at first glance looked like any other thick-rim bespectacled, man bag carrying, check shirt wearing, London based 30-something male (I have just described my boyfriend but this is not he).
On closer inspection he had a comb-over, a greasy blond comb-over at that. His glasses were quite mid 90s in a Germanic sort of way, his man bag was probably from Next in a not very nice sort of way and the check of his shirt was ill considered in a yellow and grey sort of colour-way.
On closer inspection he had a comb-over, a greasy blond comb-over at that. His glasses were quite mid 90s in a Germanic sort of way, his man bag was probably from Next in a not very nice sort of way and the check of his shirt was ill considered in a yellow and grey sort of colour-way.
He was reading a book entitled Winston's War which was not, as you might expect, the tale of the perennially mute market stall holder and the conflicts he endured during his fruitful career in Walford. No, this was "a compelling new novel exploring Winston Churchill’s remarkable journey from the wilderness to No 10 Downing Street at the beginning of World War II." by Michael Dobbs.
Now, I mention this man, not for his choice of book, but rather his actions whilst reading it.
I was looking at the floor, I like the floor and looking at it. Then I looked up and the man, we shall call him Helmut, was picking, neigh rooting, neigh excavating his right nostril. Fine I thought perhaps he is scratching, but this went on for about a minute. Deeper and deeper into the void did his right index finger venture. Surely he must realise that the curly haired stranger sitting next to me and I were watching in horror/ morbid fascination at this display. He did not. Because then his index finger retreated from its hermitage and was met by his thumb and together they rolled the snot retrieved into a tiny ball, flicking it and then repeating the whole scene a second time. To pick once may be regarded as a misfortune; to pick twice looks like
Now, I mention this man, not for his choice of book, but rather his actions whilst reading it.
I was looking at the floor, I like the floor and looking at it. Then I looked up and the man, we shall call him Helmut, was picking, neigh rooting, neigh excavating his right nostril. Fine I thought perhaps he is scratching, but this went on for about a minute. Deeper and deeper into the void did his right index finger venture. Surely he must realise that the curly haired stranger sitting next to me and I were watching in horror/ morbid fascination at this display. He did not. Because then his index finger retreated from its hermitage and was met by his thumb and together they rolled the snot retrieved into a tiny ball, flicking it and then repeating the whole scene a second time. To pick once may be regarded as a misfortune; to pick twice looks like
disregard for the rules.
'What rules?' You say.
'You know,' I say ‘the rules’.
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